


Tipsy

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drinking, First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 14:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is conceivable that Spirit has had too much to drink." Everything is a little bit simpler when Spirit is a little bit tipsy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tipsy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



It is conceivable that Spirit has had too much to drink.

He is having some trouble confirming or denying this. It is possible, after all, that the world really is gold-edged and warm and perfect and that there are no real consequences worth worrying about to any of his actions. Possibly he fell through some sort of portal into such an alternate dimension. Optimism is important, after all. However past experience suggests that his current state has far more to do with the empty glass in front of him (and he can’t be sure how many times that was filled) and less to do with the actual world itself changing.

But Stein is smiling. That is an absolute fact. That’s enough, really, even if Stein has had almost nothing so far. Spirit’s not sure that Stein has ever been properly drunk, isn’t really sure he’d want to be around if it occurred, although at the moment his brain is purring suggestions that sound pretty delightful, to be honest.

“Sorry,” he says without feeling. “I appear to be a bit…”

“You’re not sorry,” Stein shoots back, but the attack lacks any barbs. He’s watching Spirit from across the coffee table, draped across the chair he’s sitting in with rather more gracefulness than he usually exhibits. Spirit’s not sure if this is a product of the minimal alcohol the meister has had or a echoed response to his own lowering inhibitions and doesn’t particularly care. Usually it’s a fight to get Stein to relax enough to leave his lab coat at the door; Spirit doesn’t know what he has done to deserve Stein’s left arm angled over the back of his chair or the really wonderful line of his knee against the armrest but he likes it. Pleasure rises in his throat and comes out as a bubbling laugh.

“You’re right,” he admits. Stein grins, lopsided but genuine for all that, a flicker of white teeth against indoor-pale skin. He is flexing the fingers of his left hand absently; the motion is drawing Spirit’s eyes and imagination, freed of his usual self-consciousness and inhibitions for the moment, and Spirit’s usual casual daydreams are forming into something much more like intention than usual.

“You shouldn’t apologize for something you’re not sorry for, senpai,” Stein offers, but Spirit’s not really listening. He reaches out over the table, carefully to avoid accidents with the mostly-empty glasses upon it, and wraps his hand around Stein’s twitching fingers without thinking.

Tension floods through Stein’s arm, locking it into place, and the gentle shift of his hand goes still. Spirit laughs against the tickle of self-consciousness that would normally be seeping through him right now, deadened by the alcohol and the warmth suffusing his blood.

“Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” He tips his head at Stein, smiles brightly and lets his eyes linger against the meister’s. He  _knows_  Stein will cave to this in a way he has never known before, borrowed confidence and lowered barriers letting him piece together dozens of half-seen glances and almost-touches into a cohesive conviction.

Stein is angled back in his chair, his shoulders pressed as hard against the soft material as if it is a wall at his back, but his eyes are wide and very green as they catch the light, and when Spirit tips his chin down and looks up through his eyelashes and the fall of his hair he can  _see_  Stein’s face flicker soft, can hear the almost-sound of the meister exhaling, and he knows that he has won before Stein even relinquishes his hand.

Spirit sits back on his side of the table, drawing Stein up and forward by his hold on the meister’s hand so the younger man is leaning forward across the table. Stein looks panicked but his hand is going hot in Spirit’s. The weapon looks away from the meister’s face, down at his hand, turns it over with no resistance from Stein and traces a fingertip across the lines in the palm.

“You fidget, you know,” he says conversationally without looking up. Stein’s fingers have the limpness of deliberate relaxation in his, the meister apparently trying very hard to feign something less than the panic Spirit can feel running all the way up his wrist and arm and shoulder.

“I know,” Stein answers. It is flat and controlled and Spirit has never wanted to shatter anything as much as he wants to break that monotone. He glances up again and catches a softness in Stein’s eyes as he watches the weapon, a shading of liquid want that Spirit’s never managed to see before.

“It’s extremely distracting,” he offers.

Stein doesn’t answer aloud, but his breath stutters over an inhale and he is looking at Spirit as if he is frozen in place by the weapon’s attention. Spirit grins in deliberate imitation of Stein’s own usual smile, letting more intention line the expression than the meister usually has, and Stein’s eyes flicker from the weapon’s eyes to his mouth and back again.

Spirit pulls against Stein’s hand, tugging the meister forward until he is half-off his chair, and comes forward himself with the giddy confidence born of too much alcohol, setting his knee on the coffee table to support his weight and tipping forward against the resistance of Stein’s body so he can cross the distance. It’s not fast -- the world is a bit too precarious to allow for a non-catastrophic lunge on Spirit’s part -- but the slow close lets Spirit watch Stein’s eyes go wide as he approaches, lets the weapon turn to compensate for Stein’s awkward angle half-in and half-out of the chair, lets him bring his hand up to catch Stein’s shoulder to hold himself steady and pull the meister in simultaneously.

Spirit likes kissing when he is drunk. It’s an excellent use of time under most any circumstances, of course, but when alcohol is soaring through him his attention narrows to just sensation and he doesn’t have to think at all, can let instinct take over and drive his hands and mouth and tongue. Kissing Stein is no different, for all that it’s the first time, except that the usual adrenaline is multiplied, rushing into his veins so he can’t get enough air if he had the mental space left to consider the problem. Instead there is just the warmth of the meister’s mouth against his, the funny stiffness of nerves under Stein’s skin, and the sound of half-formed words vibrating through Spirit’s lips and into his mouth like he’s swallowing them. The weapon slides his hand up Stein’s shoulder to trace the line of his neck, to feather his fingers into the meister’s hair, and Stein’s fingers lose all their passivity to clutch hard against Spirit’s thumb.

Spirit arches his back, trying to slide in closer over the space between himself and Stein, but he has lost track of his delicate balance against Stein’s mouth. The motion sends his knee slipping sideways and he is falling, twisting with a half-formed yell of surprise and the clatter of falling dishes. He tries to catch himself against Stein but only really succeeds in pulling the meister down too, and then Stein reaches out with his right hand to grab at the edge of Spirit’s shirt and steady him.

Spirit glances sideways at the glass now spilling liquid across the floor, briefly considers the benefits to cleaning it up now. He and Stein are both perfectly still for a moment, taking stock of the balance and the situation, and then Spirit completes his mental calculations.

“Oh well,” he says aloud, bringing his foot up so he can step onto the table for a minute and loosen his hold on Stein’s hand and hair to affectionate instead of panicked before coming over the table into the meister’s personal space. Stein is still watching him, staring at his eyes with his mouth open in what is almost exclusively shock, but the hand holding to Spirit’s shirt is caught at the hem so the meister’s knuckles are pressing into the exposed skin of the weapon’s hip and Spirit can see the flutter of excitement between Stein’s breath and heartbeat. Spirit steps off the table and brings his knee down to slide between Stein’s waist and the chair itself, and when his lowers his weight onto the meister’s lap Stein’s eyes flicker shut and his forehead creases with what looks vaguely like pain and reads as pleasure and Spirit grins again, loose and bright, before he pulls Stein’s face up towards his own and lets the meister’s hand go in favor of sliding his hand up and under the hem of the grey shirt. Stein shivers, exhaled air brushing hot against Spirit’s mouth, but his skin is cool and trembling under sensitive fingertips, and the weapon smiles warm against Stein’s lips.

“Not used to this?” he offers without pulling away, so the words press soft into Stein’s lips.

Spirit thinks his meister won’t respond, but Stein growls and the sound turns into a “ _No_ ,” angry and frustrated and  _confused_ , and Spirit catches his own tongue between his teeth, very nearly laughing at his perfect meister’s perfect reaction. His slides his fingers up, over shaking stomach and breathless ribcage, brushing barely across the sensitive nipple, and Stein gasps high, higher than Spirit has ever heard from the meister’s throat before, and he laughs, and the sound low in his own chest is deeper than he realized he could make.

He has two hands, he realizes belatedly, and although moving the second tips him forward against Stein’s shoulders Spirit is finding it exceedingly difficult to care, except that he can’t see Stein’s eyes go glassy and unfocused under his touch when his forehead is pressed into the meister’s neck. Still, from here he has an excellent angle on hearing; he can catch every hiccup in the younger man’s breathing, every half-formed whimper before Stein pulls it back and swallows it like it’s some sort of confession. Maybe they are, for him. And then Spirit’s fingers find the waistband of Stein’s pants, and there is a moment of tangled fabric and skin and more of that alcohol-fueled laughter pouring up against gravity, and when Spirit tips right off the chair he is caught up enough with Stein that the meister follows, catching himself on the floor to spare the weapon the impact of landing but still close enough that all Spirit can see is green eyes and silver hair.

“Hi,” he whispers, breathy and high and he will be  _so_  embarrassed about this in the morning, but right now he can’t find it in him to care at all, and when he pulls himself up by the edge of Stein’s pants the meister’s hips come down on his and Spirit’s mouth comes up and for just a minute there is nothing at all in the world but damp lips against his, bittersweet coffee on his tongue and scar-soft skin under his fingers and Stein’s belt rubs raw against the joints of his wrist but it doesn’t matter because that’s the edge of boxers and the elastic is no obstacle and the  _sound_  that Stein makes as Spirit’s fingers slip past the last barrier goes straight down his spine to set all his blood on fire.

“Good  _Christ_  Stein, could you  _not_ ,” he gasps, but it lacks any real feeling. “How long do you want me to last, exactly?” and the meister chokes and laughs, and even though it is high and panicked and sounds like he’s on the verge of frightened tears all it takes is a scrape of fabric against wrist and fingers over taut skin for the almost-sob to turn into a moan.

“Fuck,” Spirit manages, clear and hard, enunciating every consonant like a curse. “Hang on,” and he pushes himself to his elbows, tries to focus on his hands, but the heat pouring off Stein’s body is intoxicating and the half-caught sounds in his throat are unutterably tempting, and it takes more mental conviction that Spirit thought he possessed to extricate his hand, to manage the buckle and belt and zipper on the meister’s dark jeans. But the payoff is enormous, better even than the weapon could have guessed, all huffed near-sobs and choked groans and green eyes and reddened lips and he could get used to this, lying on his back under Stein while the meister goes to pieces over him just from a touch, just from the  _possibility_  of a touch on hyper-sensitive skin.

Spirit never sees Stein like this. Usually it is all monotone words and restrained half-smiles and internalized amusement that never  _quite_  breaks the surface into a smirk or a laugh. Now Spirit can  _feel_  Stein shaking over him, can slide his fingers against the meister’s half-freed erection and see Stein’s eyes slide shut, see his mouth fall open and sounds he has never intended to make break free, and the  _power_  Spirit wields is terrifying and thrilling both at once.

“Stein,” he tries, just to see the reaction, and wraps his fingers into almost-a-fist around Stein’s cock.

The meister chokes, shuts his eyes, flinches in more of that not-quite-pain, and when he speaks the word is harsh with unfamiliar emotion. “ _Senpai_.” It catches in his throat, rubs raw over his tongue, and by the time the syllables make it out they scrape down Spirit’s spine and over his skin with more sensation than a touch from the fingers currently attempting purchase against his floor.

“Mmm,” Spirit says coherently, sliding his hand back up and out to close over Stein’s hip. The meister’s eyes are still squeezed shut, his breath is hot over Spirit’s face, and the weapon is glad for the sake of his own vision that  _he_  doesn’t need glasses to see. “Hold still.”

Stein is the strong one, Spirit has discovered, has spent years training in martial arts Spirit has never heard of and with a single-minded focus the weapon has rarely known, but when Spirit closes his hands over Stein’s hips the meister shudders like the strain of holding himself up is too much, and Spirit pulls himself over the wax-slick hardwood floor with much less difficulty than he expected. Stein angles his knees out of the way to let Spirit’s hips pass, instinct taking over his limited experience, and then Spirit is low, eye-level with Stein’s quivering stomach and mouth-level with far more interesting anatomy.

When he wraps his lips around his meister, Stein says his name.

It’s been  _years_  since that happened, back before Maka and before Kami and before their falling-out, before they knew each other properly and before they Resonated and before “senpai” became as warm a sound to Spirit’s ears as his own adopted name. He almost chokes, trying to smile around the self-assumed invasion in his mouth, and the sound rolls through his throat and lips and Stein makes an entirely unintelligible sound that Spirit is fairly sure he learned from the weapon, since Spirit has never himself known Stein to be anything but perfectly coherent in his speech.

The angle is wrong, steep and tilted and awkward, but the alcohol is loosening all of Spirit’s compunctions and all he wants is Stein, Stein under his fingers and Stein on his tongue and Stein in his ears, and when he tips his head to the right the meister chokes on whatever he was going to say, and when he goes left he can feel Stein go taut with agonized pleasure over his forehead, and he can’t stop smiling but it doesn’t seem to matter much.

“God, Stein,” Spirit says, and the sound gets caught between himself and the meister, as it always has, as everything between them has always been pinned down, but it doesn’t matter because this is more for his own thoughts than the meister’s, and Stein is all but whimpering with every shift of his lips now and he very much doubts the meister will remember anything at all but the hum of sensation across his cock, and the sound that is nearly a hiss and all a moan Stein makes in response backs up this assumption.

It is not that Spirit has any recent experience, really. There is Kami, of course, but that doesn’t exactly translate, and there were a few experiments years and years ago to try to warm the cold of the nights alone, but mostly this is the instinctive skill of too much wine and the whispers of fantasies, and the imperfect conscious not-quite-Resonance of dozens of dozens of fights and just ordinary response, reading the clench of Stein’s fists and the sounds in his throat and angling or speeding or slowing accordingly.

When Spirit brings his tongue sweeping low and hard against Stein’s cock far in his mouth, he  _knows_  it’ll be the last straw, knows deep down in the heat at the base of his spine that this is all it will take, that Stein is barely clinging to resistance as it is and the added sensation will tip him over, and so when the meister  _wails_  and all the tension in his body drains into hot bitterness at the back of Spirit’s tongue the weapon is ready, his drunk-slurred grip firm on Stein’s hips to hold him steady while his lips slip over the heartbeat he can feel in the pulse of orgasm.

Stein is perfectly still after, his weight frozen over locked elbows and the rest of his body as motionless as he can manage with the aftershocks of pleasure still shaking through his skin whenever Spirit touches him. The weapon squirms up with significantly less grace than he went down, twines his arms around the meister’s trembling shoulders and pulls, breaking the balance of those brittle-stiff joints so Stein lands on him with what would be bruising force were his impact not cushioned by the body beneath him.

Stein’s hands, freed of their gravitational responsibility, find their way to Spirit’s face and hair so fast they seem to have teleported before the meister goes stiff again, ice seeping back into his sex-languid veins faster than Spirit thought possible.

“Spirit,” he manages, the name cold and harsh with confusion and uncertainty, and Spirit pulls Stein in by his hair and his shoulders so their lips press together as their bodies link up at hip, chest, knee, as much a singular creature as they ever have been in combat.

“Shut up, Stein.” Spirit pours the words into his mouth, traces his meister’s lower lip with a tongue still freighted with bitter salt, and Stein’s sigh sounds like pain and resignation and release before he tucks his forehead against Spirit’s shoulder and goes limp with relaxation in his weapon’s arms.


End file.
